


oh the snow in the moonlight

by kuragins



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn, characterization??? I don't know her, dolokhov is suffering™, it's pretty gay, that Sweet danatole content, yo it's like fuckin space metaphors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-11-02 17:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10949634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuragins/pseuds/kuragins
Summary: dolokhov has come to realize that anatole is the sun. bright, warm; but the sun can burn.





	1. sun

Dolokhov had come to realize that Anatole was the sun. Bright and warm, and bringing happiness to all who were in its light. Everyone needed the sun to live, to be happy, but spend too much time around it and its heat could get too harsh, too painful. No matter how much you wanted to be around the sun, it would still sunburn you eventually. 

And God, was Dolokhov burning up right now. 

He watched Anatole spin gracefully across the ballroom with another woman in his arms, this time petite and dark haired, her beautiful eyes cast towards the ground in embarrassment as Anatole whispered into her ear. Most men would be jealous of Anatole, the most popular man in the room, because of the stunning women throwing themselves at him. But Dolokhov? Dolokhov was jealous of every woman who touched Anatole, because he thought Anatole was the most beautiful one of all. 

Dolokhov could have stared at Anatole for hours and not be tired of him in the slightest, but he saw a figure approaching him in the corner of his eye. Helene joined him in looking at the dancing man before glancing at Dolokhov in mild concern. 

"What's wrong?" Helene prodded when Dolokhov barely acknowledged her presence. Helene always knew when something was bothering him. It was both a blessing and a curse. Dolokhov let out a sigh that could rival a dying man. 

"Beautiful men," groaned Dolokhov before he could stop himself. Whoops. Not a great small talk topic. To his surprise, Helene simply nodded in agreement. 

"I think everybody's a little bit in love with my brother, however rash he is." Helene squinted at Dolokhov. "Besides, I knew you had a thing for him before you did. It's been pretty long, huh?" Helene had a disconcerting knack for reading people no matter how closed off they seemed to be. Granted, anyone with eyes could see the way Dolokhov was looking at Anatole. 

"Helene, what do I do?" Dolokhov felt like sliding onto the floor, but he realized that would be inappropriate for such a formal setting. "He's not exactly looking to settle down, is he?" Helene looked at him sympathetically, but also shook her head, and patted his knee. 

"Well, first off, let's stop drinking." Dolokhov did, in fact, have an empty wine glass hanging limply between his fingers. Helene expertly plucked it away and replaced it with her own hand. "And then we dance."

Dancing was up there in the list of things Dolokhov really didn't want to to at that point in time, right there next to watching Anatole drape himself all over beautiful people that weren't him all night. On second thought, maybe dancing was preferable. Dolokhov allowed himself to be pulled to the center of the room, a waltz beginning to play. Helene grabbed his hand and set it on her waist, then grabbed his other hand and began to move in time. 

"Really, Fedya, you'd think you've never danced in your life," said Helene as they twirled past a couple staring at each other so lovingly it made Dolokhov want to be sick. "Put some feeling into it!" Dolokhov had never really been one for dancing. He'd always preferred to stay on the sidelines, enjoying the beautiful men and women while having no responsibility to 'fall in love' or whatever Anatole was always saying about his latest flings. Speak of the devil. Anatole was waltzing right past them. The newest girl was obviously not as shy as the last one, but still tentative in looking up to meet Anatole's piercing gaze. 

Upon looking at the woman, Helene's expression changed from one of enjoyment to one of shock, and frankly, horror. The girl was quite beautiful, Dolokhov supposed, but he only had eyes for the one she was dancing with. He squeezed Helene's hand lightly. 

"Fedya, why are we even dancing? This is stupid," muttered Helene. She suddenly looked very sad. Dolokhov took her gently by the hand and led her to the side of the room. As they sat down, he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. He could feel how tense she was, and he felt guilty for not noticing it before. Helene was still looking at Anatole and the girl with a look Dolokhov could only describe as longing. 

"I loved her, you know," said Helene after a long pause. "Anatole never knew. Her name's Natasha. Beautiful name, don't you think? Just like her." Helene's voice cracked, and she looked at Dolokhov helplessly. Dolokhov hadn't ever been good with comfort, but even he had the brains to realize a hug would be good. He pulled his friend close to him, and she trembled slightly against his arm. 

"She ended it because she thought I was being unfaithful. I guess all those 'slut' rumors really do take a toll on a relationship." She breathed out a quiet laugh that sounded more like a sob. "No, I'm not going to cry. This is all in the past," Helene said, mostly to herself. She shrugged Dolokhov off of her and quickly stood up, trying to compose herself. "I'm-going to go outside for a moment." She all but ran to the door and slipped outside, leaving Dolokhov to shiver slightly at the cold she had let in. 

He stared after her, then stared at Anatole and Natasha, who were progressively getting closer and closer to each other. He grimaced, realizing why Helene had needed to get away from them. He scanned the room for a familiar face and finally spotted an acquaintance he'd met once or twice, then hurried over. Anything to get away from that sight. 

"Hello, Miss Rostova!" He greeted as he approached her. Sonya smiled her sweet smile as Dolokhov bent to kiss her hand. In another world, she would've been exactly the kind of girl Dolokhov would have wanted to marry. Unfortunately, he had fallen for the one person he could never have a chance with.

"Hello, Dolokhov. It's nice to see you here," she said, her smile remaining on her face. Dolokhov noticed that it didn't reach her eyes. 

"I didn't think you'd be here, Sonya. Weren't you living far from here last time we talked?" Sonya gave a small nod. 

"Actually, I'm staying with my cousin and her godmother for a bit. Maybe you've seen my cousin dancing. Natasha Rostova?" Dolokhov' stomach twisted unpleasantly. Sonya didn't seem to notice. "She's always been popular at things like this. Something I envy in her." Against his better judgment, Dolokhov turned to look for Anatole and Natasha. They had left the dance floor and were sitting on the edge of the room. Anatole's hand lying protectively on Natasha's lower back gave Dolokhov a bad taste in his mouth. 

"Yes, that's something I can relate to you on," said Dolokhov a bit belatedly, Sonya giving him a curious look. 

"Actually, I saw her dancing with that Kuragin man over there," said Sonya, lowering her voice. "I hope this isn't too forward, but I feel a little uneasy about that. I've heard some things about him." Dolokhov had no desire to talk about Anatole at this point, but he didn't want to be rude to such a kind woman. 

"I wouldn't say that there's anything bad about him. Of course he has his flaws, but so does everyone," said Dolokhov. Was he biased? Probably. But he sure wasn't going to admit that to Sonya, who was barely even his friend. Sonya's beautiful smile had been replaced with a slight frown. 

"Alright, Dolokhov, if you say so. He is a good friend of yours, right?" He knew Sonya meant well, but the words still made him a bit sad. 

"Of course. I'd even consider him my best friend," Dolokhov replied with a strained smile, hopefully going unnoticed by Sonya. She nodded, seemingly satisfied. 

"So, how is your job going?" Sonya's genuine smile had returned, putting Dolokhov at ease. The two made small talk for a bit, which helped take Dolokhov's mind off his feelings. Why were they so strong today? He blamed Helene and her talk of love. At that moment, the heavy door opened with a creak and Helene herself walked back in. Dolokhov excused himself and went to her. Her eyes were faintly rimmed in red. Dolokhov hated to see his best friend upset, but it seemed that she hadn't cried as much as she could have. 

"How are you?" He asked quietly, touching a reassuring hand to her elbow. 

"I'm alright, Fedya. Come on, I want to go get some wine." Dolokhov followed her to the drinks. There were pros and cons to this idea. Pros included: they got to drink alcohol. Cons included: having a perfect view of Anatole and Natasha. Anatole and Natasha, who were currently kissing each other very hard. Dolokhov and Helene both pulled in a sharp gasp of air at the same time, but Dolokhov was the one with enough common sense to grab Helene's shaking arm and lead her away from the scene. Looking at his friend, he could see the beginning of tears forming in her eyes. He pulled her towards the door she had just come through as quickly as he could without arousing any suspicion. 

Once they had made it outside, Helene stood straight against the brick wall of the building. She took deep, shuddering breaths as her hands grasped at the wall without finding a hold. She looked over at him. "I always told myself I'd gotten over her," supplied Helene, her voice shaking. "I suppose I was quite wrong." Tears finally began to fall down her face, a sight that made Dolokhov's heart hurt. He held out his arms for her. Helene collapsed against him and sobbed into his chest. He rubbed her back soothingly, his own tears starting to well up in his eyes. Why was he upset about this? He saw Anatole kissing women all the time; he'd be concerned if Anatole wasn't kissing someone at a party. Maybe it was the way they were looking at each other. Dolokhov had never seen Anatole look at a woman like that. Or maybe it was a person he cared about very much crying into his shirt. 

"Fedya?" Helene's whisper was so quiet that Dolokhov almost didn't hear it. "Fedya, I...this is going to sound bad, but... please kiss me." Dolokhov tensed up. What? His shock must have been evident on his face, because Helene clutched tighter at his shoulders and looked at him pleadingly. "Please...I need- I need to forget."

Dolokhov kissed her. 

She tasted like tears, and loneliness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I found out that there aren't enough fics in this fandom so I absolutely had to write one. expect sporadic updates, but please stick with me I like my idea for this one. (also Do Not Panic, danatole is endgame)
> 
> my [tumblr](https://andrierretashas.tumblr.com/)


	2. moon

Dolokhov sometimes thought he was like the moon. The moon is far from important, and it would be nothing without the sun's light. Nobody would be in danger is the moon suddenly disappeared. But some people thought the moon was beautiful. 

Helene was kissing him like he was beautiful. 

The way she moaned under him made him feel beautiful, too. 

The next morning, Dolokhov's heartbeat sped up upon feeling her body pressed against his. When he saw the dark, curly hair spread across the pillow, he realized it wasn't who he wanted in his bed. 

God, he'd slept with the wrong sibling. 

Dolokhov pressed his eyes with the heels of his hand and fell limply against his pillow. What had he done? Gone and slept with his best friend, that's what. How was he going to fix this? Scenarios ran through his mind of Helene kicking him out, never to speak to him again, or forcing him to marry her because she'd gotten pregnant, or something equally as horrifying. 

There was a rustle of bedsheets next to him as Helene stirred. Dolokhov was beginning to feel quite panicky. He'd only slept with a friend once before, and it hadn't ended well. He'd never talked to him again. He didn't know how Helene would react. Should Dolokhov run away and pretend it wasn't him she slept with? He started out of the bed to grab his clothes, but he heard a yelp from next to him. He whipped around to see Helene staring at him with wide eyes, the sheets pulled up to her neck to cover herself. 

"Did we..." she trailed off. Dolokhov just nodded. 

"I'm really sorry, Helene. It just...happened," Dolokhov admitted, bracing himself for the worst. Instead, Helene just burst into tears and covered her face with the comforter. Had he... had he been that bad? Frankly, Dolokhov had been ready for many things, but not this. He hovered awkwardly in the middle of the room, not sure if he should stay or go. Yeah, he'd never been good with crying women. 

"I'll-I'll be right back," Dolokhov managed, then grabbed his clothes and rushed out of the room. He realized that this probably looked like he was running away from Helene, but it was too late to go back now. He headed swiftly for the kitchen, pulling on his pants as he went. Helene always liked tea when she was upset. Or maybe that was Anatole. Saying that Dolokhov's mind was jumbled would be an understatement, so tea would have to do. He wondered what would be happening right now if Helene and Anatole still lived together. That had been a while ago, Anatole leaving for the city because he felt "constricted." At least Anatole was still only ten minutes away; he'd never stray far from his beloved sister. 

Dolokhov finished making the tea and balanced the cups in his grip, going back to Helene's room. Helene had shrugged on an oversized shirt and was sitting cross-legged on her bed. She was sniffling into her pillow as Dolokhov set the mugs down on the table next to her bed, and sat down gingerly next to her. She leaned her head on his shoulder, which he thought was a good sign. 

"Fedya-I...I don't even know what's going on in my head." Helene's head was heavy against Dolokhov's arm, almost as if her problems weighed her down. He ran a hand through his friend's hair soothingly. It occurred to him that from an outsider's point of view, he and Helene would look like a couple. Helene sighed. "I don't even regret it. It was great, honestly. But I just keep thinking about how people call me a slut, and I guess they're right. And I just keep thinking about Natasha. I can't get her out of my head. It's been years, Fedya. Years." She wiped her nose on his shirt, which Dolokhov found he strangely didn't mind that much. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer. 

"Helene, you know it doesn't change anything. We're both stuck on other people, and I suppose this is just our way of dealing with it. It's not wrong or anything." Oh. That had just slipped out, but Dolokhov realized he didn't even feel weird about it. Oh boy, were he and Helene going to be those crazy friends who just had sex all the time? The thought almost made him laugh, but another sniffle from Helene stopped him. 

"Okay," she said, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. Dolokhov knew that when Helene was in a bad mood, she shut down and cut everyone off. Everyone except Dolokhov, that is. He really was glad to be her best friend. 

"Come here," he said, lying back on the bed and patting the space next to him. Helene curled up without a fight, resting her head on Dolokhov's chest and closing her eyes. There they remained until they drifted off, an odd yet content pair. 

There was a knock on the door. Dolokhov was the first to hear it, blearily rubbing his eyes and rolling himself out of bed. Would Helene mind if he answered the door? Dolokhov checked the time. It was already around noon, so him being here could just be seen as a friend visiting for lunch. He poked Helene to wake her up. 

"Hey, is it okay if I answer the door?" Helene turned over and stretched her arms above head, letting out a sigh. 

"Mm, just leave it. They can come back later," said Helene, voice groggy. She reached her arms out to Dolokhov, but he grabbed her hands and pulled her up. 

"Nope, we're getting up. We don't have to answer the door, but I'm making food." Grumbling, she followed him. They had only made it halfway to the kitchen when they heard the sound of the door opening. They stopped dead in the middle of the hallway, Helene clutching Dolokhov's arm. He shot her an alarmed look, and Helene had the face of someone who had forgotten something very important. 

"It's Anatole," she mouthed, grimacing. Dolokhov's heart leapt to his throat. "I forgot that I gave him a spare key."

"How could you just forget? Oh my God, he's going to think we had sex or something," whispered Dolokhov. Helene smacked his arm. Dolokhov knew that she was trying to appear cool and nonchalant, but this was bothering her more than she was letting on.  

"We did. Let him think what he wants, he's had his fair share of escapades. One time we both got really drunk and things happened. He'll understand." Dolokhov had not needed to know that. He decided to pretend he didn't. At that moment, Anatole's voice rang through the room.

"Sweet sister, I think I'm in love! Did you see her-" He trailed off abruptly, stumbling into the hall where Helene and Dolokhov were standing and looking quite guilty. A smirk spread across his face, and he raised an eyebrow knowingly. "Oh, so that's where you went off to last night. Who would have thought, my sister and my best friend!" Best friend. The words hurt Dolokhov more than they should have. Helene blatantly ignored what Anatole had said and brushed past him into the kitchen. Dolokhov could see the sad look lingering in her eyes, remnants from the previous night when she was watching Natasha with Anatole. 

"Hello, Anatole, we were just about to make some breakfast. Care to join us?" Helene asked, avoiding Anatole's eyes. He nodded, looking slightly confused but following nonetheless. Helene fiddled silently with something in a drawer, and Dolokhov and Anatole sat at the table. Dolokhov played with his own fingers, the tension in the room palpable. 

"Helene, that ball last night was probably the best thing that's happened to me," continued Anatole, a stupid grin plastering itself onto his face. As always, he was incapable of reading the mood. Helene slammed the drawer shut with much more force than was necessary, glaring daggers into the back of Anatole's head.

"Look, Anatole," shot Helene coldly. "We don't care about your foolish one night stands. Dolokhov and I are too tired to listen to your stupid blabbering." She closed her eyes, looking exasperated. 

"But sister, this isn't like the other women I meet," said Anatole. A sick feeling started to grow in Dolokhov's stomach. "I knew from the moment I saw her. She's different. And I plan to marry her; the sooner, the better." Dolokhov's heart dropped through his toes. He chanced a glance at Helene, who had gone very pale. 

Anatole had never said that about a woman. 

Before Dolokhov had a chance to say anything to Helene, she had sent one last glare in Anatole's direction and stormed out of the room, Anatole staring after her curiously. Dolokhov suddenly realized that he was about to cry. Anatole, still blissfully ignorant, let out a laugh. 

"I always wonder about women," said Anatole, his airy tone making Dolokhov want to sink onto the floor and curl up in a ball. "So beautiful, yet so fickle. Sometimes I think it would be better if I could marry a man." Dolokhov knew Anatole didn't realize how much those words affected him, but that stop him from wanting to punch Anatole in the face at that moment. Dolokhov excused himself, making up something about going to see if Helene was alright. He found her curled on the floor next to her bed, shaking with silent sobs. 

Dolokhov let Helene cry into his shoulder for the second time that day. That was two times too many.

"Do you think he'll really marry her?" she sniffed when Anatole had finally left. Dolokhov silently wondered the same. 

"He may want to now, but you know how he changes his mind," said Dolokhov, partly to convince himself as well. It wasn't really working. "And besides, I was talking to Natasha's cousin Sonya yesterday. The Rostovs would never approve of Anatole, so you don't have anything to worry about." Helene nodded, but looked thoroughly unconvinced. 

Dolokhov didn't quite feel convinced either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is shorter than the last one sorry mates but I'm hella inspired on this one so be prepared for updates soon.
> 
> my [tumblr](https://andrierretashas.tumblr.com/)


	3. stars

Anatole was seeming less and less like the sun. Dolokhov could feel him slowly drifting away, a bright presence dimming. He was more like the stars that glitter in the night sky, that seem much closer than they really are. When you reach out to one, they're millions of miles away.

It had been a week. A single week had passed, and in that week, Dolokhov had watched Anatole transform right before his eyes.

"Dolokhov, write something to Natasha for me," came a voice from behind Dolokhov, who turned around quickly. Anatole was staring at him expectantly, clutching a letter written on decorative stationary paper. He looked starstruck, his eyes wide and a gleeful smile on his face. He thrust the letter toward Dolokhov.

"Look, she wrote to me again. She's so good with words. I have to impress her or she'll just forget about me." That was something Dolokhov had never imagined coming out of Anatole's mouth. He always crowed about how all the women loved him, which was the truth. He'd never been worried about being good enough, seeing as he'd been too distracted by the girls telling him how perfect he was. Dolokhov's stomach clenched at the thought that Natasha might even be good for Anatole.

"Anatole, why do you expect me to do all your dirty work? She's going to be disappointed when you finally do whatever you're planning and you turn out to be some idiot she's never talked to in her life." Dolokhov couldn't help but smirk at the affronted noise that Anatole made, however miserable Dolokhov was feeling.

"Just read it," said Anatole, waving the paper in Dolokhov's face. Dolokhov accepted it begrudgingly, glancing down at the delicate, feminine handwriting that covered the page. Disgustingly sweet endearments leered at Dolokhov from the cursive. Dolokhov had to look away and swallow the lump in his throat. He couldn't quite meet Anatole's eyes.

"Fine," conceded Dolokhov, accepting the pen and paper Anatole was holding out to him. "What do you want me to say?" He asked, pen poised.

"Start off with 'Dear, Natasha.'" Anatole paused for a moment in thought. "No, wait. Natalie. We're close enough for that, right?" Dolokhov resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Ok, 'Dear Natalie," Dolokhov spoke aloud as he wrote. "Then what?" Anatole seemed to be debating whether or not to say something. Dolokhov prepared himself for a lewd comment.

"I want to elope with her," blurted Anatole. Dolokhov froze. Oh, no.

"You _what_?" Dolokhov struggled to keep his tone even. Anatole at least had the decency to look guilty.

"I just... can you write that? Or something like it?" Dolokhov didn't trust himself to open his mouth, and nodded mutely. O _h god, please let her say no, please let her say no, her family will never let her, please let her say no_. Dolokhov forced himself to touch the pen to the paper, writing the words he wished Anatole would say to him instead. He hoped Anatole wouldn't notice him shaking. He stared down at the page, his own words staring right back. They seemed to mock him. _Let me come and steal you away_ , they called to him. _If you love me, just say yes._

 _I do love you_ , cried Dolokhov's mind. Dolokhov ignored it.

"Here's your letter. Just sign it and you're guaranteed a pretty little new wife," said Dolokhov, sarcasm dripping from his smile. Anatole didn't take his eyes off the paper, reading it with eyes crinkled in delight.

"Thank you, Fedya. I owe you one." And with that, he rushed from the room in a billow of coattails, leaving Dolokhov standing in his wake. Dolokhov rubbed a hand over his face and did his best not to cry. He failed. He didn't want to tell Helene and make her miserable, but he had no one else to go to. He found himself at her front door, knocking desperately. It opened slowly, Helene peeking her head out.

"Oh, hello, Fedya, I wasn't expecting you," she said, then noticed that he was crying. Her eyes went wide with worry, and she grabbed his hand tightly. "Oh, God, come in, what's wrong?" Dolokhov led Helene lead him inside and sit him down on the couch. He eyes glistened as he looked at her without saying a word.

"Is it about Anatole and Natasha?" asked Helene, placing a comforting hand on his arm. He could only nod, but the words triggered a fresh wave of tears. Helene let him cry into her shoulder until he calmed down. Finally, face red and blotchy, he was able to tell Helene what had happened.

"Anatole just made me write a love letter for him. But--" Dolokhov took a deep breath. "--this one was asking Natasha to elope." Dolokhov didn't have any tears left, so he curled in on himself and laid against the arm of the couch. Helene immediately reached to hug him. He could just see her face out of the corner of his eye, and it was filled with fear. For him, for Anatole, for _herself_ , he didn't know, but he knew she was trying to keep herself together.

"Helene, you can cry if you want," he murmured, voice muffled by the couch. She said nothing, but laid her head on his lap and grabbed at his knee as if it were her lifeline. She didn't make a sound, but her tears soaked his thigh.

They stayed like that for what might have been ten minutes or two hours. Suddenly, Helene lifted her head. Her eyes were rimmed with red.

"Let's go back to your house tonight," she said. Dolokhov knew exactly what she was suggesting. He could definitely agree.

That night, as Helene pressed Dolokhov against his bed and kissed him, hard, there was a knock at the door. Helene pulled away quickly, and Dolokhov was left breathing heavily and very dazed. Helene sat backwards on top of his thighs.

"That had better not be Anatole," she growled, sending a look at Dolokhov that was a mixture of anger and lust. Dolokhov would probably say that he was terrified, but also very turned on.

"I'll go get it," said Dolokhov resignedly, since he still actually had a shirt on. It had begun raining, sheets of water pelting the windows and wind battering the walls.

Another knock.

Dolokhov reached the door and peered out the window. A figure was standing outside, wrapped in a long black coat and shifting from foot to foot, but he couldn't quite make out who it was. It most certainly wasn't Anatole, so Dolokhov unlocked the heavy door and pulled it open.

Sonya Rostova stood in front of him, pulling her coat tightly to her body as she shivered. Her hood was covering her head, and her hair was long and down, whipping across her face in the wind. Dolokhov stared at her in surprise for a moment, then remembered his manners and ushered her inside. She stopped dead right as she stepped into the house, dripping water onto the floor. Sonya opened her mouth and closed it again, looking distraught.

"Look, I obviously didn't come here for a visit, and I'm sorry this is how this has to be, but I saw the letter from Anatole," she said, pushing her wet hair away from her eyes and blinking the water away. "You're the only person close to him that I trust enough to come to about this." Dolokhov's heart jumped slightly. Damn it, he'd wanted to forget about Anatole, at least for tonight.

"Sonya...lately I don't even think I know who he is anymore. We did used to be so close but he's just separated himself from me. I'm sorry." Dolokhov looked at her apologetically, but she just seemed to become more panicked at his words.

"No, you don't understand," Sonya said, wringing her hands. "My godmother, Marya...she's very strict. Kind, but so strict. She'll send Natasha back to her father, and her father will _not_ be happy." Sonya's eyes glazed over like she could see exactly how unhappy he would be. "Natasha told me that her father arranged for her to marry someone else, but she doesn't love him. Her father insisted, though. I don't think she really loves Anatole. She just wants a way out." Sonya looked like she couldn't stand still, fidgeting with the hem of her coat and smoothing out her dress. Dolokhov tried to touch her arm, but she flinched away.

"Sonya, there might be someone else who can help you. I know you're not going to like it, but it's the only thing I can think of." Sonya nodded, set in stone and her usual soft smile missing. Dolokhov chanced a small, sympathetic smile. "She's...she's actually here right now. Helene, Anatole's sister," said Dolokhov, fighting the urge to feel embarrassed. Sonya seemed to have beat him to it, face slowly turning red.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, was this a bad time? I didn't mean to interrupt if you were...ah, busy," she said, not meeting Dolokhov's eyes. "I didn't know you two were..." She trailed off. Dolokhov quickly shook his head.

"No, no, nothing like that. We're just close friends," he said as he wondered whether he could trust Sonya. He looked into those kind eyes and realized he didn't care. "Actually, I, uh, I've kind of been in love with Anatole for a long time." Sonya's eyes widened, and Dolokhov had a brief moment where he thought he'd made a terrible mistake. But then Sonya's lips turned up into one of those small smiles that so perfectly fit her face, Dolokhov felt alright again.

"Oh my goodness, really? I don't think I've ever met anyone else like me," she said. "The only person I've ever told is Natasha. She said she didn't understand how I could like other girls in that way." Dolokhov resisted the urge to snort at that. From the stories Helene had told, Natasha was far from thinking like that. The smile suddenly left Sonya's face. "Not that I'm happy about your feelings for Anatole. I'm sure that's horrible." Dolokhov nodded and tried to maintain his calm, but his mind was suddenly filled with images of Anatole's lips and tight pants.

"Well, anyway, let me go get her," said Dolokhov, already starting down the hall. He reached the bedroom where Helene was lying on the bed dramatically, still shirtless. She shot Dolokhov a bored look.

"God, Helene, will you put a _shirt on_?" hissed Dolokhov. "Sonya Rostova is here, and apparently she's a lesbian. And she needs your help." Helene smirked.

"Yes, I heard you. Hold on a moment, I'll be right out," she said, pulling her shirt on. When they went back to where Sonya was standing, Sonya took one look at Helene's disheveled hair and clothes and started to blush again. Helene barely seemed to notice and instead took the girl's hand gently, making her flush even deeper.

"Fedya, don't you have any manners? Don't even invite your guests in? Here, Sonya. Let me take your coat, as my friend over here is apparently incapable of doing that," said Helene as she slipped Sonya's coat gently off her shoulders and draped it over a nearby chair. "Please come in," she said, leading the way to the kitchen, Sonya following behind her. She offered Sonya some tea, and set Dolokhov to the task of making it. He rolled his eyes but complied.

"Now, Sonya, I have known Anatole my whole life," came Helene's voice from behind him. "And if there's one thing I can say for certain, it's that he's extremely fickle. I know this sounds silly, but Anatole will probably lose interest." Dolokhov turned around to see Sonya nodding gravely. Dolokhov knew all of this about Anatole, but it still made his stomach twist a bit. _I never had a chance with him, and I never will_ , he reminded himself.

"And if you're really that concerned, there's no harm in telling Marya," Helene said, smiling at Sonya. Dolokhov knew that wasn't a true smile, but one she put on when she knew it would convince someone of something, something Helene wanted. "I _have_ met her on occasion. I know she's strict, but she'll do what's best for Natasha, and you know that." Sonya seemed thoroughly convinced, and Dolokhov wasn't sure if he should be relieved or worried. Telling Marya would mean large problems for Anatole, but Dolokhov's selfish side was telling him that this would mean he'd get his Anatole back. Helene and Sonya continued talking to each other, but Dolokhov had tuned them out in his constant thoughts of Anatole's hair, and what it would feel like to run his hands through it while they kissed. He really needed to get a handle on that.

"Helene, thank you so much. I had no idea what to do, and both of you really helped," Sonya was saying, getting up from her chair.

"Oh, but you can't be leaving already? You just got here!" Helene stood with her.

"No, really, I must go. Marya will see that I'm gone." She smiled her beautiful smile again, and walked to the door, grabbing her coat from the chair it had been lain across. Dolokhov couldn't help but notice that she seemed considerably more cheerful than she had been when she first knocked on his door. He felt a strange satisfaction from that, knowing that he had helped someone.

"She's really a beautiful one, isn't she," said Helene, sending a knowing glance to Dolokhov.

"That's really not that important right now. Do you think she'll tell Marya?" Helene went to Dolokhov and leaned her head on his shoulder.

"Oh, of course. You saw that smile? I know Marya, and she'll be waiting when Anatole tries to take Natasha away." Dolokhov looked at the sly expression on Helene's face, and realized they were both incredibly selfish. Oh, well. Being around Anatole as his friend was better than not being around him at all. He was sure Helene felt the same about Natasha. "Sonya said that  Anatole is planning to carry Natasha off in two days' time. He's probably going to want help, and you should help him. With Marya, we don't have anything to worry about." Dolokhov felt a lot better than he had all day, and pulled Helene close to him.

"We can talk about this tomorrow," he said, lips close to her ear. She turned to face him and smiled, an entirely different smile from the one she had just used on Sonya.

When Dolokhov woke up next to Helene, this time intentional, he felt content.

He should have known that a moon can't last long without its sun.

Two days passed like they were nothing, and Dolokhov suddenly found himself at Anatole's house attempting to help him get ready for the elopement. He had lent Anatole quite a large sum of money, but, in typical Anatole fashion, he hadn't thanked Dolokhov in the slightest. He repaid Dolokhov instead in approximately four comments about Natasha's feet per hour.

"Fedya, she's so beautiful. Have you seen her? She's so _hot_ ," proclaimed Anatole, swaying slightly as he finished off another glass of wine. Frankly, Dolokhov was quite annoyed, and with good reason. The girl was pretty, but Anatole had no idea what he was getting himself into. _Married_. A word that Dolokhov never would have imagined applying to Anatole. He had always dismissed the concept, sneering at unhappy couples and laughing at girls who begged for his hand. Why now?

"Anatole, you haven't thought this through," said Dolokhov, trying to reach Anatole through the haze of alcohol. Anatole giggled.

"No, of course I have. I sent her three letters. That's a lot." Anatole tripped, and Dolokhov instinctively stretched out his arms to catch him. Anatole stumbled straight into his chest, wrapping his arms around his neck. Dolokhov fought a shiver, Anatole's fingers igniting a fire everywhere they pressed on his bare skin. Dolokhov hoisted him up.

"Alright, that's enough wine," he told Anatole. "And really, this isn't a good idea. Where are you going to go after this? Do you think Marya's going to let you just carry her away without a fight? And what are you going to do when she misses her family? You won't be able to go back." Anatole's mouth turned down into a slight frown.

"No, of course it's a good idea. Here, feel how my heart beats for her," said Anatole, grabbing Dolokhov's hand and pressing it to his chest. It was, in fact, beating a rapid tattoo against his palm, though that may have been a side effect of the excessive alcohol. Dolokhov's breat caught in his throat. He wondered what Anatole's heart would feel like if it were beating for him.

"Anatole, stop. I'm serious, this is a really bad idea," Dolokhov pleaded. "I'm not joking, this isn't going to end well." Anatole met Dolohov's concerned gaze with a harsh one of his own.

"You're just jealous because I'm marrying a beautiful woman and you're not. I can see through you," accused Anatole. Dolokhov simply sighed and turned away from him. He really wasn't wrong, but the truth was that he was quite jealous of Natasha. To have Anatole carry him away in the dead of night for their secret wedding...the thought sent a chill down his spine.

"Fine," Dolokhov conceded. "Do what you want. I don't care if your life is ruined. If we want to get there on time, we need to leave now. Let's go." Anatole went quiet. Maybe Dolokhov had finally gotten to him.

The ride to Natasha was made in silence, Anatole looking out the window and refusing to face Dolokhov. Dolokhov would be worried, but he was holding out hope that Marya would pull through and kick Anatole to the curb. It only took about ten minutes to reach the house, but it seemed like much longer in the tense silence. Once they reached the back of the house, Anatole slipped towards the back porch. Everything seemed still and dark in the house, and for a fleeting second, Dolokhov wondered if Natasha wouldn't even come out and Anatole would wait by the door all night. But then the door opened and closed quickly, and a small figure hurried outside, wrapped in a fur coat with her head down. Natasha ran to Anatole, who wrapped his arms around her. She looked up and cupped his face with her tiny hands, and they looked at each other with so much unbridled affection that it made Dolokhov feel a bit sick.

 _Where's Marya? She needs to be here. Please._ Dolokhov's mind rang out alarm bells as Anatole and Natasha started back towards him unhindered. As if on cue, the door swung open with a bang and Marya Dmitrievna stood there in all her glory.

"Don't you dare _touch_ her, you scoundrel," spat Marya, a sight to behold. Anatole immediately jumped away from Natasha and started sprinting back to where Dolokhov sat waiting, ever the coward. Natasha reached out towards Anatole in vain, Marya grabbing her arm and pulling her back into the house. A faint cry of Anatole rang out as they drove away as fast as they could, Anatole's arm reaching out of the window like he could bring Natasha to him if he willed it hard enough.

This drive was a quiet as the first, but was punctuated by the occasional sniff from Anatole. Dolokhov chanced a glance beside him, and Anatole grasped his arm tightly. Dolokhov had to look away from the Anatole as silent tears began to roll down his cheeks. He couldn't bear to look at Anatole's pain.

God, Dolokhov had gotten what he wanted. But this wasn't what it was supposed to feel like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a monster of a chapter, at least for me. I know I'm not a very good writer, but at least I'm working on improving! I really really appreciate any feedback, especially any constructive criticism. thank you for reading my shit!
> 
> request fics at my [tumblr](https://andrierretashas.tumblr.com/)


	4. moon, continued

A week after the failed abduction, Anatole was still pathetically despondent. Honestly, Dolokhov felt very guilty about the whole ordeal, because even if he knew that what he had done was best for Anatole, the poor man was still completely miserable. He had barely eaten or slept since it happened, and only waited near the door as if Natasha would show up any moment. Dolokhov had been staying with Anatole for the past few days, since he knew it was a bad idea to leave him alone after something like that.

The letter came in the morning, a soft sound of paper falling onto the wood of the floor. Anatole's head snapped up like a cat hearing a tiny sound, and he ran to the door faster than Dolokhov had seen him move all week. He opened the letter reverently, as if it contained some great secret. Perhaps it did. However, once he read the first line, all the blood drained from his already pale face. He finished reading, then dropped the letter to his side and looked at Dolokhov with wide eyes.

"It's- it's my father," said Anatole, swallowing hard. "He heard about...he wants me to go to stay with him in Petersburg so he can 'keep an eye on me,'" he said bitterly, putting air quotes around the words. "I suppose I really have no choice." Anatole seemed to deflate, dropping his eyes and shoulders in a way Dolokhov had never seen him do. Dolokhov's heart sank with realization of what was really going to happen. Knowing Anatole, he'd write for a few weeks at the most, then completely forget. Then Dolokhov might never talk to him again. The very thought of it made Dolokhov want to grab Anatole and never let go. It must have been evident on his face, because Anatole's expression softened a bit and he took his hand. It sent a shock up Dolokhov's arm, and he suppressed a shiver.

"No, Fedya, I know what you're thinking, and it isn't true. I promise I'll write, every day if you want me to." Anatole's voice sounded so sincere that it sent _something_ through Dolokhov's chest. He couldn't bear to look at Anatole. Pulling his hand from his grasp, he turned away.

~

Anatole stood next to the troika, bag in hand. He shivered, even though he was wearing his usual long green coat, and the air had no chill. Dolokhov stood next to him but didn't acknowledge him. Helene stood on Anatole's other side, looking upset as she scrubbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

Anatole appeared more helpless than Dolokhov had ever seen him. Dolokhov _felt_ more helpless that he had ever before. The three stood in an tense silence as they waited for the driver, and Anatole ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

"Fedya, I can't leave like this," Anatole blurted, turning to Dolokhov with a wild look in his eyes. The driver rapped on the window, the signal that everything was ready and Anatole could depart anytime. Anatole's eyes were wide with fear, and he sucked in a shallow breath. "I have no idea how to live there, and I trust you more than anyone else in the world. No, offense, Helene," he added, turning to his sister apologetically. She waved her arm with a sniff. "I'll go crazy if you don't talk to me." He ended with his hands in a vice grip around Dolokhov's arm, but Dolokhov couldn't seem to make himself care. That seemed to be his reaction to everything involving Anatole.

"God- Anatole, we both know that's not going to happen." Looking at Anatole's desperate face gave him pain in his chest. "You should go. It'll be okay," he said, pretending he didn't notice how tears were starting to gather in Anatole's eyes. Anatole turned to Helene first, gathering her into his arms as she cried into his shoulder. Then he looked at Dolokhov as if he wasn't sure how to say goodbye to him. _Hold me_ , Dolokhov wanted to say. _Kiss me._ Anatole extended his hand to Dolokhov. _Or just shake my hand, that's fine_ , he thought slightly bitterly.

Anatole held Dolokhov's hand in his for a moment, then brought it to his lips. He lingered there for far longer than was appropriate, not even considering the fact that he was kissing a _man's_ hand. His mouth was hot against Dolokhov's hand. It burned.

"There's no way I'm ever going to let you go," he murmured against Dolokhov's skin, his breath dusting across it. He looked up at Dolokhov with such an intensity in his weary-looking eyes, a look so uncharacteristic of Anatole the flirt, that Dolokhov believed him. And maybe something strange stirred in his stomach at being the subject of a stare so fierce. Either way, Dolokhov knew that tears were pricking at his eyes as he watched Anatole pick up his bag with trembling fingers and step into the troika. Dolokhov looked away, and didn't dare to look back.

~

The first letter arrived in only a week. Helene brought it to him, a worn envelope covered in Anatole's scrawling handwriting.

"Helene, how are you doing? You know..." Dolokhov trailed off, with no idea to say next. Helene's face was pale, but she didn't look as dejected as she had a week ago. In fact, she looked rather happy.

"About as fine as you'd think. Actually, better," she said with a mysterious grin. "Oh, I have something for you. I've been checking on your house. I just wanted to make sure it was okay since you're not there." He looked down guiltily at Anatole's couch he was sitting on. He literally had no excuse for staying at Anatole's house, other than how bad he had it for him.

"Thank you, Helene." He stared down at the letter, not quite sure whether he really wanted to open it or not. Helene still stood, looking at him knowingly.

"Do you want me to stay?" She asked teasingly. Dolokhov nodded vigorously. She sat next to him and patted his knee. "Now open it." He did, carefully working the letter out of the envelope and unfolding it.

_Dearest Fedya,_

_Greetings from Petersburg. I find that though it is quite interesting here, it is nothing like Moscow. I think that may be because you aren't here, Fedya. I have realized that I haven't missed Natasha in the slightest here, but I cannot keep you from my mind. It's strange. I often want to feel you in my arms, and see you smile. I don't think I've been a good friend to you. I want to change that, and I hope you can forgive me for not realizing how much you do for me._

_Yours,  
Anatole Kuragin_

Dolokhov set the letter down on the table, heart pounding. Helene grabbed at it and read it while he sat in shock.

"That's...really gay," Helene finally whispered as she put it down again. Dolokhov nodded.

"What should I do?" Dolokhov asked, not taking his eyes off the offending letter in front of him.

"Write back, obviously. But you have to make it even gayer," said Helene knowingly.

"Are you sure?" Dolokhov wasn't.

"Absolutely. He's totally oblivious and that's what tells you he really feels something for you." Dolokhov shivered for no real reason.

"I don't know," Dolokhov said, grabbing the letter and holding it so tightly it began to crumple. He held it a bit closer to his face than necessary, as if he was making sure it was real. "Maybe he's just writing that because he knows he's been an awful person and it just makes _him_ feel better. It probably means nothing."

"No one in their right mind could read that letter and tell me that he's saying that for himself," Helene insisted, rummaging for paper in one of Anatole's drawers. She unearthed some and tossed it towards Dolokhov. I landed on his lap, and he ignored it. "Fedya, just write your feelings down. You don't even have to send it, but I know that will make you feel better." Dolokhov sighed and took the paper from her.

"Fine," he grumbled, putting his pen to the sheet.

_Anatole,_

_I was very happy to receive your letter. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you, either. Though, that's nothing new._

Too much? Dolokhov thrust the paper towards Helene, who read it and snickered.

"Do it," she urged, her eyes sparkling as she covered her mouth. Dolokhov looked back to the letter.

_I feel the very same way that you do, I believe. I remember how we used to hold each other when we'd had too much to drink. I miss that feeling. I think you underestimate what I do for you, though. I simply do what any friend should._

_I'm not sure I have much more to say, even though I wish I could send something long for you to enjoy._

_Yours,  
Fyodor Dolokhov_

"Helene, read it." She did, nodding thoughtfully.

"Yes, that is sufficiently gay. I'll send it for you so you don't back out," she said, holding it out of his reach. Dolokhov tried to pluck it from her hands, but to no avail. He groaned, slumping back into the couch.

"Okay, but if you're going to do that, you have to tell me what you're so happy about." He squinted at her for a moment. "It's something gay, isn't it?"

"Fedya, I have no idea what you're talking about," she said with an air that she thought she knew more than Dolokhov did about being gay. Well, she could keep believing that.

"Oh, come on, you wouldn't be that happy if something gay hadn't happened," he prodded, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, fine, for God's sake, Natasha wrote to me," she admitted, unable to keep the smile off her face. "She said that she missed me and she was sorry for everything that had happened." Dolokhov couldn't help but smile as well, but he also wondered if Anatole would ever feel like that about him. He shook his head, clearing the idea from his mind. _Don't be stupid. It'll never happen._

~

In the next weeks, letters came and went, each becoming more and more suggestive. Every time Helene came to his door, he ran to her like a dog ran to its master in search of a morsel of food. The letters seemed to sustain Dolokhov, and in the time between them, he felt listless and distracted. One day, Helene came upon him rereading a line that Anatole had written a week earlier, running a hand through his hair over and over and chewing his nails to the point of blood. She gently took his hand and pried the paper from his grip, then touched her hand softly to his cheek.

"Fedya, you really need to say it outright. I can see how it's eating you up." Dolokhov fervently shook his head. Helene sighed.

"Stop it," he whined, but still snatched the newest letter. "This isn't going to go anywhere, and you know it. It's just nice to pretend." Helene raised an eyebrow, but  Dolokhov childishly pulled his knees up to his chest, ripping open the envelope and holding it close to his heart.

_My very dearest Fedyushka,_

_Every day I do not see you feels like a knife into my heart. I find that I have completely forgotten what Natasha's face looks like. However, yours I can remember in great detail. Most of all, your eyes. They're so blue, but I can't even tell you what they are like. Just beautiful pools that I long to be lost in, because of how much I long to be with you. Fedya, I just want to see you so badly. I don't understand what's happening to me, and it's frankly quite frightening. I'm horribly aware of the wrongs I've done you, and I want to set them right._

_To tell you the truth, I had a very strange dream last night. We kissed in it, just like I would kiss a beautiful woman. It didn't seem strange, though. It felt right. Then we did some things that I absolutely cannot mention on paper, for fear of humiliating myself if I did so. I suppose I'll just have to tell you when I next see you. I hope I will soon._

_I miss you very much._

_Forever yours,  
Anatole Kuragin_

Dolokhov had flushed completely red. He coughed, and quickly crossed his legs in an attempt to cover up... _that_ , but of course Helene noticed and read the letter without even asking first.

"Fedya, oh my God, this is insane. You have to go to Petersburg," she decided, slapping the letter onto the desk definitively.

"Helene, you can't- you just can't say that!" he spluttered indignantly.

"Sure I can! I'm not going to let you go on denying this. Look at that letter and tell me he feels nothing for you. Go on," she said, brandishing Anatole's words like a weapon. Dolokhov shrunk into the back of his chair, and Helene's expression softened. She paused for a moment, clearly thinking hard.  "Okay, look, I have an idea. Remember how we helped Sonya Rostova out? Well, maybe she can help us. She always gives good advice," Helene said decidedly, ignoring any of Dolokhov's attempts at protesting.

Several hours later, Sonya sat with Helene and Dolokhov, blushing furiously as she reread the letter in her hands. Dolokhov watched her expectantly, chewing his lip.

"Well, not even talking about the part about the, uh, dream, you still can see he does really want to see you. I think you should go." She spoke like she knew exactly what she was talking about, even when her face was still a bit pink. She smiled that smile that was specific to Sonya Rostova, and Dolokhov wondered why she hadn't yet become a con artist to cheat people out of their livelihoods with just that smile.

Sonya cleared her throat. "And, if I were you, with that dream thing, I would _definitely_ go," she said, her voice lilting slightly in embarrassment. Dolokhov tugged on his hair, more flustered than he'd care to admit.

"Uh, I guess I'll have to think it over. Sonya, you can stay here with Helene, but I'm going upstairs for a little bit." He spoke as calmly as he could, but the way he stumbled slightly on his way out of the room made Sonya look at him with sympathy and pity.

"It was good to see you, Dolokhov," she offered. "I hope you can visit us soon." Dolokhov nodded distractedly and managed to make his way up the stairs, dazedly gripping the railing. He ended up in Anatole's bedroom, which was mildly distressing, but not surprising, either. He gravitiated towards Anatole's bed, curling pathetically under the quilt. As per usual with Anatole, the bed wasn't even made, even though he'd been gone for more than two months. Dolokhov could sit in the rumpled sheets and pretend that Anatole had just gotten out of bed, and would soon return with coffee and that Dolokhov could look down at his chest right now and imagine he was admiring the love bites Anatole had left the night before. Dolokhov bit his lip as he clutched a pillow close to him, wishing that could be a reality.

 _It could be if you go to Petersburg_ , Dolokhov's mind whispered to him. He would have ignored that voice, but it wasn't wrong. Abruptly standing up from the bed, he went to Anatole's desk. For some reason, something was telling him to open a drawer. He did. It was filled with papers, and Dolokhov unfolded one. Oh. It was a letter from Dolokhov to Anatole from at least a year prior, berating Anatole for breaking yet another young girl's heart. Dolokhov unfolded another paper, and another. They were all the same. Letters from Dolokhov, all carefully preserved and organized. At that sight, something painful twisted in Dolokhov's chest, and his throat went tight. Anatole really was like the sun. And if Anatole was like the sun, that meant Dolokhov was like the moon. And he knew that no matter how hard the moon tried, it couldn't never be its true self without the sun.

Dolokhov frantically shuffled through Anatole's things as he looked for paper and a pen, fighting back a sob. He'd made up his mind.

_Dearest Anatole,_

_I find that I share your sentiments. You know how I love reminding you of all your mistakes, but without you here, I'm restless. I hope that you know I miss you terribly, and I hope you are being truthful about wishing I were there._

_I leave for Petersburg as soon as possible. Perhaps we can discuss that dream of yours when I arrive._

_Forever yours,  
Fedya_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi can I get a fuckin uhhhhhhhh not updating in a month sorry bitches. here it is tho, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> request fics on my [tumblr](https://andrierretashas.tumblr.com/)


	5. stars, continued

Dolokhov shivered as the cold wind whipped from the open window of the troika. He couldn't bring himself to close it, instead watching the lights of Petersburg blur as he rode past. He'd packed the night he wrote the letter, haphazardly throwing anything he could into a bag. He'd realized halfway through the journey that the coat he'd thrown on last minute wasn't his own, but an old, worn one of Anatole's. He pulled it as close to him as he could, the soft fabric giving off a faint scent of the man. Dolokhov buried his face in the collar.

Helene hadn't been anything but incredibly supportive, even though he could tell it took a toll on her to have the two people closest to her leave within a few months of each other. She still had Sonya, though. Dolokhov knew they were becoming better friends, and Dolokhov really was happy for Helene. Really. He knew that being close to Sonya could lead to being closer to Natasha, and he couldn't help but feel a little jealous that Helene actually had a chance with the person she was stuck on.

"I'm going to Petersburg," he had proclaimed feebly, holding up the sealed letter. "Tomorrow," he added. Delight, then concern flitted across Helene's face. She'd finally settled on a knowing smirk.

"Well, I won't stop you," she said, exchanging a look with Sonya. Dolokhov had given a weak nod, then ran back upstairs.

The troika jerked to a stop, pulling Dolokhov from his thoughts. His mouth dropped open as he gazed at the building. He'd known that Prince Vasily's estate was much larger than his own, but he hadn't been expecting this. Tentatively swinging the troika door open, he walked slowly toward the entrance.

"Sir Dolokhov?" inquired a servant at the door. Dolokhov made a noise of assent, and the servant stepped aside and opened the heavy door. Dolokhov peered inside, then stepped through the entryway.

The first room he entered was huge, but cold and bare. It was hard for Dolokhov to fathom how anyone could live here and be comfortable here. That is, until the sound of feet running on marble rang through the high ceilings, and Anatole sped towards him. The sun had returned, warming the great expanse of emptiness in the house, and the cold that Dolokhov didn't even realize had settled inside his chest was suddenly gone

"Fedya!" he cried, knocking Dolokhov off his feet and into a hug before he could respond. Dolokhov pressed his nose to Anatole's exposed neck before Anatole could notice his eyes growing misty, and clutched a handful of the back of his shirt to stop his hands from shaking. Anatole's hands skimmed across his back and settled at the nape of his neck, and Dolokhov  held Anatole as close as his heavy coat would allow. How could it feel so right to be here in his arms? Dolokhov couldn't help but feel frightened at the feelings that bubbled and overflowed inside him.

~

Later, after supper (an uptight and uncomfortable affair where Dolokhov never knew quite the right thing to say to Anatole's slightly peculiar father), Dolokhov sat with Anatole in the parlor. Something seemed a bit off, Anatole's grim expression a direct contrast to his usual carefree, if careless demeanor. Anatole's father walked past the parlor, and Anatole flinched. Dolokhov wanted to reach out to Anatole, to do something, but the look that Anatole sent him very clearly said, _not yet_. Prince Vasily's footsteps faded as he walked to the end of the hallway, then disappeared. Anatole let out a short breath.

"Alright, he's retiring for the night," Anatole whispered, immediately standing up and crossing the room to sit on the sofa next to Dolokhov. The sofa that was really was not made for two people. Anatole's thigh pressed up against Dolokhov's and Dolokhov couldn't decide if it was terrifying or wonderful. "Fedya, I missed you," murmured Anatole, much too close to Dolokhov's ear. Dolokhov was at a total loss as to how Anatole could have changed so much in only a few months. The Anatole he knew was loud and raucous, with disregard for the feelings of others and thoughts only of himself. Anatole, somehow, leaned even closer.

"Anatole, what's going on? Why are you acting like this?" Dolokhov managed, attempting to slide away from Anatole but hitting the side of the couch. Anatole ignored him.

"I thought you wanted to hear about my dream," Anatole all but _purred. Oh, for god's sake,_ Dolokhov told himself, and turned to face Anatole. He hadn't looked at him properly for months. God, he was beautiful. His eyes were cast toward Dolokhov in an expression that Dolokhov had never seen directed toward himself, but he'd seen Anatole flirt with so many women that he knew _exactly_ what it meant.

"Tell me," Dolokhov blurted, hands coming up to the back of Anatole's neck. Anatole reach behind his head and grabbed them, bringing them to his lips and kissing each finger individually. Dolokhov bit his lip and stared incredulously at Anatole, who smirked back at him. "What happened in your dream?" he managed to whisper.

"The first thing I remember was this," Anatole breathed against Dolokhov's skin, leaning forward. Dolokhov couldn't look away from Anatole as he kept moving towards him, finally, _finally_ , pressing his lips to Dolokhov's. He wanted to say that it really wasn't as good as he thought it would be, that he was just glorifying Anatole, wished that he could say Anatole's lips weren't as soft as he fantasized whenever he stared at them. He couldn't do that if he tried, because even if it was everything he'd imagined , Dolokhov couldn't focus on anything but the way Anatole's lips were moving against his, the way Anatole's back felt under his trembling fingers. Anatole pulled back and Dolokhov chased after his lips.

"Then I did this," he murmured. He was still close enough that Dolokhov could feel his breath fanning out over his lips. Anatole smirked and dove his head to Dolokhov's neck, attacking it with open-mouthed kisses and small bites that made Dolokhov draw in a sharp breath. His mind, surprisingly, was blank. He couldn't force it to focus on anything other than the constant chant of _Anatole Anatole Anatole_ that rang out in his dazed mind. He threaded his fingers through Anatole's remarkably smooth and shiny hair a bit too tightly, the sharp intake of breath from Anatole affecting Dolokhov more than it should have. Anatole gave a spot on his neck one last bit of attention, then started to move lower. Dolokhov gasped as he worked open his shirt and did the same thing to his chest as he did to his neck, bit back a whimper as Anatole's fingers lingered at the waist of his trousers. Dolokhov knew what was coming, but that didn't make him prepared for it.

When Anatole wrapped those pretty lips around him, everything went silent. Everything was _stars_. Exploding behind his eyes, spreading across his skin in the spots Anatole held his hips, in Anatole's eyes when he looked up triumphantly at Dolokhov's flushed face. How was Anatole so _good_ at this?

Stars when Dolokhov's body tensed over the edge, stars dripping down his brow where Anatole touched his forehead and brushed his hair away.

"Then I woke up," he whispered, grabbing Dolokhov's hand again and kissing it. Then he swung his legs off the sofa, and was gone, just as quickly as he'd come to strip Dolokhov of his last bit of pride (and his clothes, too). Dolokhov brought a hand up to mop at his face, feeling exposed in the empty room. His mind was suddenly racing, common sense flooding back to him and forcing him to wonder what the _hell_ had just happened.

~

Dolokhov blinked awake, not quite remembering falling asleep. He was still lying slightly awkwardly on the sofa, covered in a light blanket.

"Good, you're awake," came a voice from above him. He started as he looked up at Anatole leaning on the back of the couch. "I'm making some tea, would you like some?"

"I...sure, thank you," Dolokhov muttered, the events of the night before flooding back to him. He closed his eyes again, begging himself not to do anything too drastic before he could sort out his thoughts. He checked over himself, realizing he was still wearing his clothes from the day before, and that his hair was a mess. He ran a hand through it in a futile attempt to tame it.

"Fedya, don't just sit there, come and sit with me," Anatole called, Dolokhov's heart jumping slightly at the sound of his voice. _Since when had that been happening?_ Dolokhov was, in his own humble opinion, a mess.

When Dolokhov sat across from Anatole, Anatole gave him a smile that seemed slightly... _off_.

"So, Fedya, I just wanted to say about last night-" Dolokhov tensed up "-I just want to say that it doesn't- it doesn't change anything between us, right? We're still friends? I know friends who do...those things and they stay friends. Like...you and Helene. I know that happened before you came here." Anatole stopped himself, looking at Dolokhov like he was worried Dolokhov would refuse and walk out that moment. Dolokhov had half the mind to, but with one glance at Anatole's face he realized he couldn't. Dolokhov couldn't fathom why he kept doing this to himself. It was an endless cycle: build up hope, then have it crushed to the ground again. What the hell were these letters, then? Was Dolokhov just another fling like all the women Dolokhov berated him for attempting to seduce? He forced a smile onto his face.

"Anatole, don't be stupid. Of course we're still friends," Dolokhov managed, probably sounding very strained. Anatole's face relaxed, and a languid smile slowly began making its way across his lips.

"Oh, thank God. Here, come sit here!" He pulled out the seat next to him, and Dolokhov reluctantly followed his request. Anatole patted his knee, and Dolokhov had to turn away so that Anatole couldn't see his face.

Dolokhov retreated to his guest room as soon as he could. God, this wasn't going according to plan. He curled up in the massive bed, feeling like he might get lost in the sheets without anyone else there. He imagined Anatole there, kissing him, _feeling_ him- hold on, that had already happened. Dolokhov ran his hand down the side of his neck, wincing as he pressed too hard on the bruises Anatole had left. He'd always wanted this. But this... _this_ wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. He buried his face in a pillow and pretended it was Anatole's chest and that Anatole was stroking his hair, and telling him how much he loved him.

That night, Anatole really did climb into Dolokhov's bed. Pressing himself close to Dolokhov, he kissed him hard. Dolokhov kissed him back. Maybe if he pretended that Anatole loved him, everything would be alright.

~

_Dearest Helene,_

_It's been a week since I arrived in Petersburg. Anatole sends his regards, as does your father. I do hope I'm not offending you, but I find your father to be quite perplexing, and a little intimidating. I'd love to tell you that I'm enjoying myself in your brother's presence, but I must admit that that isn't quite the case._

_Things are not going as I'd hoped. We... recreated Anatole's dream, as you might put it. It was wonderful, at least in the very moment. However, Anatole wishes for our relationship to continue as it has always been, simply as friends. I am more that a little torn up about this situation. I tried to prevent myself from getting my hopes up, but as you may have guessed, I certainly failed._

Dolokhov paused in an attempt to recollect himself. He nibbled on the end of his pen, willing the tears not to fall. They did anyway, one dripping onto the corner of his half-finished letter. Dolokhov sighed, the noise slightly choked.

_I regret to say that I'm still just as in love with him as I've always been. It's a hopeless cause. I'm not even sure why I'm telling you this. You've always been there for me, I suppose. I miss you. I wish you could be here so that you could help me keep a handle on your brother. Or help me keep a handle on myself._

_Send my regards to the Rostova cousins. Please thank Sonya for her help before I left._

_Yours,  
Fedya_

Dolokhov stared at his freshly written letter to his best friend, wondering where he'd gone wrong with Anatole. At that very moment, the man himself clattered into Dolokhov's room in typical Anatole style, nothing covering his chest. Dolokhov yelped and pointedly looked away, folding the letter hurriedly.

"Anatole, will you have some common decency and dress properly? For god's sake, you I'm your guest," shot Dolokhov, not chancing even a glance at the man, who had come further into the room and was now leaning on the back of Dolokhov's chair. Anatole looked at him confusedly.

"But we- you've already seen- oh, never mind. Oh, what's that? Who's it for? Can I read it?" Anatole tried to grab at Dolokhov's letter, and Dolokhov leaned as far away from him as the chair would allow.

"It's nothing," Dolokhov snapped. "Just a letter to your sister. Speaking of whom, you seem to be forgetting about. I may as well be her brother. At least a better brother than you are." Dolokhov belatedly realized that he was being quite mean to Anatole, but Anatole had been causing him a whole lot of heartache since he'd arrived in Petersburg. Dolokhov snatched his letter and put it in the envelope with as much force as one can use to put a letter into an envelope with, and stalked out of the room, leaving a perplexed-looking Anatole standing in the doorway.

Trudging past Prince Vasily's study, Dolokhov wandered through the house. He wasn't quite sure where he was going, just away from Anatole. The letter in his hands felt heavy, a painful reminder of how he'd left his life in Moscow for _this_ ; for a cold, empty house and a cold, empty heart. Dolokhov growled under his breath and raked his fingers through his hair, desperately missing Helene, the one who kept him rooted to the ground when Anatole screwed with his feelings without a clue he was even doing it. He sent the letter as soon as he could, longing for the arms of one who understood him more than anyone else.

The days blended into one another, Anatole oblivious as always. Dolokhov found himself unable to enjoy Anatole's almost daily advances, which was both confusing and absolutely explainable. He supposed it was different with Helene because they were both starved for affection, both longing for exactly the people they couldn't have. With Anatole...Anatole somehow had no idea what he was doing to Dolokhov. Dolokhov didn't want to admit that Anatole was using him just as he had used all the innocent young girls he had often tried to seduce. He didn't want to admit that Anatole really hadn't changed, that he was only concerned about his own pleasure, and that he was ruining Dolokhov's life in the after effects. Should Dolokhov just give up on the whole thing?

"Sir, there's a letter for you," came a servant's voice, jolting Dolokhov out of his reverie. He sighed, barely able to nod at him in thanks as he took the letter from the man's hand. Helene's distinctive handwriting covered the envelope, and Dolokhov clutched it close to himself. He ran up to his room, set himself at his desk, and fervently opened the letter.

_Dearest Fedya,_

_I am so sorry my brother is treating you this way. If I would have known, I would have written much sooner._

_I believe I can make this right. It's in Anatole's nature to be manipulative, but I can tell when he really cares about someone. I will send a letter to him at the same time I send this one. I don't think you'll be all too excited about what it contains, but please wait until you see what happens to get angry at me._

_I miss you very much. Moscow seems duller without you. Natasha and Sonya send their greetings._

_Yours,  
Helene_

Dolokhov shot up at his desk, heart pounding wildly. She wouldn't dare. He rushed down the hall to Anatole's room, praying it would be empty. To his horror, it was, but a single letter lay open on the unmade bed, unmistakably written by Helene. It seemed to glare at him ominously. Dolokhov approached it slowly, as if he were afraid it would bite him. He finally picked it up, but he almost couldn't get himself to look down at the page. He swallowed hard and took the plunge.

_My stupid, misguided brother,_

_Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea what you're doing to your friend, our friend? I cannot believe you would go back to your old ways of seducing people for your own gain. And our own Fedya, of all people? You should be ashamed of yourself._

_If you had even a shred of self-awareness, I'm sure you would notice how much of an effect you're having on Fedya. Do you even understand how much he cares about you? Loves you, even? And not in the silly way you insist you love all those poor young girls. Don't you see how you're hurting him?_

_I'm extremely disappointed in you. I shouldn't be trusting you to make this right, but I still am. Fix this, Anatole. Or I'll be heading for Petersburg next._

_Helene_

Dolokhov's stomach dropped. The letter fluttered from his hands onto the ground, Dolokhov frozen in place and staring, mouth open, at the place it had landed. A thousand thoughts were running through his mind, crashing into one another and creating a jumbled mess of confusion. At that moment, a loud voice echoed through the halls.

"Fedya? Fedya! Where are you? It's important! Helene sent something, I don't know-" It was Anatole. Of course it was Anatole. He came careening into his own room, stopping dead when he saw Dolokhov standing rigidly in the middle of it.

Oh, _fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is dedicated to that one anon on tumblr who condescendingly told me my story was ridiculous because too many good things were happening!!!! love u!!!!!!
> 
> request fics and yell abt great comet on my [tumblr](https://andrierretashas.tumblr.com/)


	6. meteor

It seemed as if Dolokhov stood there for an eternity. Anatole looked to the ground, where the letter lay, then back at Dolokhov's terrified face. Anatole's mouth opened, then closed again, as though he wasn't sure what to say.

"Is it- Fedya, is it true? What Helene said?" Anatole's voice was soft, too soft.

Dolokhov couldn't look up at Anatole, couldn't speak. He didn't realize he was crying until the tears dripped onto his collar. This wasn't supposed to _happen_. Anatole should have been kissing him right now, telling Dolokhov that he'd never let him go, that he'd never leave him. Anatole should have been holding Dolokhov close to him, his eyes alight with happiness. This Anatole was shifting from foot to foot, looking incredibly uncomfortable. He wasn't smiling in the way Dolokhov had always imagined. He looked scared. Dolokhov angrily swiped a hand across his face, but the tears persisted. Anatole was still staring at him, his eyes wide and questioning. He looked too small; too nervous.

Dolokhov nodded.

Anatole was silent.

Dolokhov knew, then. He knew that it was never meant to happen, that everything that had transpired since the attempted abduction of Natalya Rostova was leading up to this, this inevitable heartbreak; that he shouldn't have ever bothered. He felt the cold wrap around his heart, crawl up his throat, close its fingers around his mind and soak up the tears, leaving him eerily calm. Calm, and empty.

"Fedya, I- you know you're my best friend, but- how, I don't, I _can't_..." Anatole trailed off, looking distraught. Anger flared in Dolokhov's chest. What right did Anatole have to be distraught, when he was standing here ripping Dolokhov's heart from his chest? Anatole cleared his throat and tried again. "Fedya—I-I can't say that I feel the same way. I _don't_ feel the same way." Anatole reached toward his arm, a misguided attempt at comfort, but Dolokhov pulled away.

"You're awful," Dolokhov spat, backing away from Anatole. "I can't believe wasted my time on _you_."

The eyes that glittered with an unspoken apology lingered in his mind as he blindly stumbled away from Anatole, finding his way downstairs to the only kind of comfort that had never failed him. He lost track of the hours as he sat and stared at the wall, his heart numb by the bottle he clutched close to himself.

~

Everything was _wrong_. Anatole hadn't said a word to Dolokhov since four days earlier, the exchange Dolokhov wished he could wipe from his mind. His chest still ached, an unwanted reminder of his unwanted feelings. The Kuragin estate seemed far too large again, Dolokhov's every step echoing through the towering ceilings, the ornate decorations leering in his face. It was all too much. He sulked in his room, disheartened; despondent. He felt pathetic, really, but it was better than the prospect of a confrontation with Anatole.

He was finally cornered the next day as he was trudging through the halls to find something to eat. Anatole at least had the decency to look guilty as he chewed on his lip. He thrust two envelopes at Dolokhov and opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out.

"Save it," said Dolokhov harshly, snatching the letters from his hand. As he stalked away, he pretended the brief touch of Anatole's hand on his elbow hadn't been comforting.

~

_Dearest Fedyushka,_

_I am so sorry. I don't know what to say. I was terribly misguided in what I did, and I am not sure you'll ever forgive me. I would not blame you if you didn't._

_Please don't give up, however. I know my brother, and if I can tell you anything, it's that he truly cares about you. There's something between you, but you must give it time._

_I miss you very much. The city isn't the same without you._

_The Rostovas send their regards._

_Yours,  
Helene_

~

_Dolokhov—_

_I was so sorry to hear what had happened between you and Anatole. I, too, know what it is like to feel that way toward someone who doesn't reciprocate._

_I wish to extend my ear, so to speak. If you ever need to talk, please do not hesitate in contacting me. I will be here._

_Sofia Alexandrovna_

~

The letters lay out on the desk the next day, quietly observing Dolokhov's internal crisis. He paced back and forth across the floor of his guest room, running a hand through his hair every once in a while. He looked thoroughly disheveled by the time he finally sat, rummaging for a pen.

_My dearest Helene,_

_You know that I could never hold what you did against you. Your heart was in the right place, even if it didn't turn out how both of us would have hoped. I suppose it's better to be sure than to keep putting myself through your brother's flirtations._

_I miss Moscow, and I miss you._

Dolokhov stilled his hand for a moment, his lip unconsciously caught between his teeth. Sighing heavily, he made up his mind.

_I_ _am making arrangements to return as soon as possible. Everything moves so slowly here. It's stifling._

_There's also the issue of Anatole. I believe it would do me some good to be away from him for a bit. I realize now how much of my life I've wasted on him (all in vain, I'm afraid to admit). I must move on._

_Yours,  
Fedya_

As he sealed the letter, he resigned himself. This was the right choice, wasn't it?

~

The tension in the air settled heavily around the two as Dolokhov handed Anatole his letter to Helene.

"Fedya, I—," Dolokhov cut him off with a shake of his head.

"Don't," he said, his voice weak. He felt so helpless. "I don't want to hear it. I just want this letter sent." Anatole swallowed.

"No, it's just—here, there's another one." He dropped a thick envelope into Dolokhov's hands, not meeting his eyes. Dolokhov took a deep breath.

"I'm arranging to leave Petersburg tomorrow morning," he said, barely managing to keep his voice even. It felt worse when he said it aloud. Anatole's shoulders drooped slightly, barely enough to be noticeable. Dolokhov noticed.

He glanced briefly to the letter lying heavily in his hands, if only to diffuse the discomfort in the air, but immediately looked back to it, eyes wide. He recognized that writing.

"Galya," he breathed, panicked, all the scathing comments he'd wanted to say to Anatole forgotten in favor of ripping the envelope open as fast as humanly possible. "My God." He barely registered Anatole stepping forward hesitantly, his eyebrows furrowed in reluctant concern. She never wrote unless something was wrong. Never. His hands shook as unfolded the letter.

_Dear brother,_

_It's been too long. I do hope this reaches you; I'd heard from Helene Kuragina that you are staying at Vassily Kuragin's estate in Petersburg. She truly is an exquisite woman._

_I regret to tell you that this letter is not because of any happy occasion. I'm afraid that Mama is very ill. We both know our mother is a woman of weak constitution; however, the doctor has disclosed that he hasn't much hope for her this time around._

_I do not wish to be a nuisance, but I believe it would be in your best interests to return to Moscow immediately. I would not want what happened with Father to happen to you again._

_Yours,  
Galina Ivanovna_

Dolokhov's breath stopped in his throat. It coudn't be happening. Not again. Memories of his father came flooding back to him in an instant, his warm eyes and kind smile, but also the way that smile had disappeared in his illness, how his eyes had gone blank and confused. It couldn't happen again. He couldn't _let_ it. He hadn't realized how violently he was trembling until he felt Anatole's hands curling around his wrists, so gently that he couldn't bring himself to protest.

It was familiar, and comforting, and _terrifying_. Dolokhov let Anatole's arms wrap around him as he clutched at Anatole's shirt, fingers desperate for something constant to hold onto. Everything was blurry as Anatole stroked his hair, as he whispered soothingly into his ear. Somewhere in the back of his mind, his common sense was rapping incessantly on the door he'd locked it behind, telling him that _no, no, no. You can't rely on him. Remember what happened last time you did this? Do not let him in_. Dolokhov couldn't bring himself to listen. Anatole was too warm to resist.

Anatole gently pried the letter from where it was being crushed in Dolokhov's hands and unfolded it carefully. His face stayed neutral, a feat for him, and he nodded almost somberly.

"I'm coming with you," he told Dolokhov. Dolokhov opened his mouth, ready to protest, but Anatole squeezed his hand softly, earnestly. "I'm not letting you do this alone. Not again."

~

The troika ride seemed much colder than the one leaving Moscow, despite the heavy warmth of Anatole's arm wrapped tightly around Dolokhov's shoulders. He couldn't force himself to address Anatole's close proximity now, not when his mind was reeling with horrifying possibilities of what he might see when he arrived in the city. The more he concentrated, the more the sound of his mother's voice seemed to slip from his mental grasp. _You've been a horrible son_ , his subconscious berated, and he agreed. He'd spent his time chasing useless pleasures, straying from the path his mother had wanted for him.

Galina greeted them when they arrived at the Dolokhov estate, her dark hair falling like a limp curtain around her pale face. She wasn't the woman Dolokhov remembered. Her eyes weren't the playful, bright blue ones he thought he knew so well; she held herself stiffly, as though any lapse in appearance would cause something horrible to happen. When he embraced her, he could feel her ribs, jutting out from her thin frame. She blinked up at him, expression unreadable.

"She's inside," she said, her voice lower than usual. "So is the doctor." She stepped aside to let him pass, and he hesitated for a moment in the entryway, stomach twisting uneasily. Anatole's hand came to rest firmly on Dolokhov's lower back, and he took a deep breath, steeling himself.

She looked worse than he had feared. Her face was sunken and gaunt, and her eyes were blank as she looked at him. He remembered the time he was shot, years ago, back when he was still a fresh-faced army recruit. He'd thought then that it was the worst pain he'd ever experience. He'd been wrong. Seeing his mother like this made him feel like all the air had been snatched from his lungs, like a disembodied hand was squeezing his heart, hard. He stood, frozen, unable to move any closer.

He couldn't bear to look at her. He turned away, eyes fixed and unblinking. God, he was a coward. His sister's eyes were filled with pity as he stumbled out of the room again, her hand coming to rest soothingly on his arm.

"I can tell you've been cooped up in Petersburg. Go on, go for tonight. She'll still be here tomorrow." She gave a mirthless laugh. "If there's one thing we know about our mother, it's that she's a stubborn old woman."

~

_Count or Prince,_

_If you have nothing better to do, and if the prospect of spending time with an old woman such as myself does not frighten you away, I await you at eight-o-clock tonight._

_Annette Scherer_

~

Anatole took him to see Helene, hand resting steadily on Dolokhov's shoulder. Evidently, she had not known about their arrival. Her eyes widened when she saw them, almost comical with her hair halfway done up, sweater wrapped haphazardly around her arms.

Dolokhov didn't truly realize how much he'd missed her until she fell into his arms, the familiar pressure of her head against his shoulder filling an ache he hadn't even noticed was there. She drew back, sniffling, but her gaze turned steely as she turned it to Anatole. Anatole could barely manage a greeting before she hauled him into the next room by his arm, Anatole protesting weakly. Dolokhov watched them leave, his mind vaguely fuzzy. He sat heavily on the sofa, letting his head rest on his hands. It still didn't seem real. All those months holed away in Petersburg with no one familiar but Anatole, and now he was once again thrust into the glamor of Moscow, lights seeming to shine more harshly than he remembered.

The more he thought about his mother, the more numb his chest became. He couldn't bear to comprehend the gravity of her situation, the inevitable end, not when he was here, sitting idly on Helene Kuragina's pristine sofa while listening to her arguing with her brother in the next room. He thought of his sister, the way _her_ eyes had almost seemed as sunken as his mother's, the way she'd slumped slightly when she'd thought no one was looking. His whole body was suddenly filled with guilt. He could have sworn it boiled over, splashing out of him and rolling across the carpeted floors, soaking into all the other inhabitants of the house.

_You're a sorry excuse for a son, his subconscious reminded_ , and he was compelled to prove it wrong. He quickly stood, about to start for the door, but it was then that Helene reentered the room, her smile now slightly forced. Anatole followed, hovering behind her like a lost, confused child, his hands shoved into his pockets. Dolokhov could guess from the way Helene was holding herself that _Anatole_ should be the one feeling guilty, but he only looked slightly uncomfortable.

Helene caught sight of Dolokhov's path to the house's exit, and she hurried towards him, arms wrapping reassuringly around his shoulders. "Fedya, hold on a minute," she said soothingly, her hand rubbing steadily up and down his arm. "I know what this situation is like. I've been through it. So has Tolya." His shoulders tensed at that, the stiflingly affectionate diminutive that rolled easily off Helene's tongue, of no importance to her. He remembered when he spoke it so easily. It seemed like so long ago, when Anatole flirting with too many women was the most of his problems. He let himself lean onto Helene slightly, the smell of her flowery perfume a small comfort.

Helene pulled away gently. "There's a soirée tonight. Anna Pavlovna's. Would you like to accompany me?" She held out her arm for him to take, but he hesitated, his glance involuntarily darting to Anatole, who still stood sheepishly in the doorway. "It'll help. I promise," she said, her voice soft with something like pity. He sighed, but clutched at her arm all the same, her soft skin under his fingers something familiar cutting through his haze.

~

The ballroom reminded him painfully of his time with Anatole, though its high ceilings rang with music and friendly conversation. Dolokhov wore his uniform, the stiff material holding him uncomfortably upright. He could remember countless social encounters in that uniform, ones where people stared and whispered about _Dolokhov the assassin._ Now, though, he was sure it was evident on his face that he was a coward.

People still stared, now, but it was with more contempt. _It's Dolokhov_ , they said to each other in hushed voices. _With Anatole Kuragin, that scoundrel_. He shrank under their glares, never one to be scorned. Respected, yes, even feared, but this was new. Anatole held his head high, as though he hadn't a care in the world, and Helene was still holding tight to Dolokhov's arm, face frighteningly even.

"Oh, will you look at Princess Helene wrapped around Dolokhov?" he heard a woman whisper to her companion, who clutched her and giggled. "Certainly something unsavory going on there."

"Are you sure this was a good idea?" Dolokhov hissed into Helene's ear. She bit her lip, but kept walking.

"It's fine," she said, though she didn't seem fine. "It gets like this whenever I first arrive somewhere. The scoundrel's sister and all. It dies down, I promise."

She was right, of course, as Dolokhov had never known her to be wrong about social comings and goings. Once they settled themselves in a corner, the whispering died down, exchanged for gasps as a newly engaged couple arrived. Dolokhov leaned back as he sat down, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Anatole was already attracting the attention of a pretty young woman, who kept glancing at him as her mother scolded. Dolokhov understood. Anatole held himself loosely, despite the guests who glared at him, who pitied Helene, who went out of their way to avoid him. Dolokhov wondered if Anatole was extremely oblivious, or extremely brave.

One thing he was sure Anatole was, though, was beautiful. Dolokhov couldn't deny that, as his eyes lingered on his lips; his cheeks, somehow shining slightly in the lamplight; his eyelashes fanning out over them, fluttering as he studied the women flitting around the room. As Dolokhov followed his gaze, he realized it caught on the men, too; tall, lean ones with a playful twinkle in their eyes; broad-shouldered soldiers who stared right back at him, something heated in their eyes. Something red-hot reared its head in Dolokhov's chest as he watched the corners of Anatole's mouth turn up because of some _stranger_.

As the night wore on, the guests seemed to warm up to the trio. Helene had disappeared with an acquaintance of hers, on the pretense of dancing. The flame in Dolokhov's chest rose higher as he watched Anatole finally ask the pretty girl who had been eyeing him for a dance, pulling her close by her waist. When Anatole sat again, breathless, a faint smile lingering on his face, Dolokhov leaned close to his ear.

"Follow me," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Anatole's ear. He watched him shiver slightly, biting his lip. Dolokhov abruptly left his seat, slipping towards the hall he knew led to the rest of the house. Anatole trailed behind him, looking around them nervously. Somehow, no one paid them much mind, caught up in their own affairs.

Dolokhov found an empty bedroom, far enough removed from the main room that they wouldn't be found, even if someone went looking for them. Perfect. He pulled Anatole in, fingers wrapped around his wrist, tightly. The slam of the door echoed around the hall, but Dolokhov didn't notice, all his attention focused on pressing Anatole into the wall and kissing those stupid, stupid lips with all the contempt he could muster.

(It wasn't much. Anatole was too soft, and his lips fit too well with Dolokhov's. Anatole's arms wrapped snugly around his shoulders still made him weak at the knees.)

Anatole whined into the kiss as Dolokhov pressed his knee roughly between his legs, his fingers tightening on Dolokhov's back. Dolokhov studied Anatole's face as he pulled back from the kiss. His lips were red and swollen, and he panted as he blinked back at Dolokhov, eyes silently begging Dolokhov to touch him again. Good. He wanted to make Anatole as helpless as Anatole made Dolokhov.

Anatole's neck was exposed, the pale, delicate skin, in Dolokhov's opinion, much too perfect. His hands encircled Anatole's wrists again, pinning him to the wall as Dolokhov ducked his head to his collarbone, dragging his teeth along it as he felt the muscles in Anatole's wrists move, his fingernails scratching at the wall beneath them in a vain attempt at finding something to hold onto. Dolokhov reached the spot where Anatole's neck met his shoulder and bit down. It wasn't gentle. Anatole gasped and threw his head back, nearly slamming it into the wall. Dolokhov growled. Of _course_ he would like that.

Doing this, simply _ruining_ Anatole, made Dolokhov feel so powerful. Anatole was completely at his mercy. His eyes shone with a silent plea for _more_ every time Dolokhov pulled back from him. Anatole needed him, desperately, and it was intoxicating.

  
Dolokhov studied Anatole's face again, with his flushed cheeks and infuriatingly perfect, plump lips. He was truly quite pathetic, wasn't he, this so-called _prince_? Dolokhov had to suppress the cruel laugh the bubbled up in his chest as he watched Anatole slump back against the wall, moaning quietly under his breath as Dolokhov grabbed him through his ( _excessively tight_ ) pants.

  
"On your knees," Dolokhov whispered roughly, pushing Anatole's head down before he could do it of his own accord. He unbuttoned his trousers as quickly as he could, Anatole already licking his lips in preparation. Oh, he was enjoying this. Dolokhov pressed himself into Anatole's mouth in one movement, his hips bucking slightly as Anatole's somehow practiced lips slid wetly around him, already taking him nearly all the way. Dolokhov couldn't help the groan that escaped him, and he laced his fingers into Anatole's ( _stupidly perfect_ ) hair tightly. Anatole moaned around his cock, hands coming up to wrap tightly around the back of Dolokhov's legs.

Dolokhov looked down at the man kneeling before him. Anatole was absolutely wrecked, his hair mussed, his mouth glistening, his hands trembling. Now Anatole knew what it felt like to be completely ruined by someone else, simply for the other person's gain. Dolokhov smiled coldly as he watched him.

~

Afterward, the guilt returned tenfold. _Why did you think that would help_? his subconscious scoffed. _You still can't have him the way you want him. And now look what you've done to him!_ Dolokhov glanced to the man curled next to him, the marks on his neck turning an angry red even as he watched. His stomach turned unpleasantly as he noticed the beginnings of  bruises on Anatole's wrists. _Not to mention your mother_ , it sneered. _Here you are, running around with this scoundrel while she’s lying on her deathbed._ _You’re awful._  

Anatole's arms wrapped around his waist as the tears started to drip down Dolokhov's face, silent sobs wracking his chest.

Dolokhov was a meteor, hurtling towards earth. A deadly collision was inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot of notes for this chapter:
> 
> \- yes, it’s been four months. i hope at least a few peopl stuck around.  
> \- i’m still not proud of this chapter. it seems choppy and worse than the last few, but my brain won’t cooperate and actually tell me how to fix it.  
> \- i realize that the characterizations are much different. that’s what happens when you wait four months to update things! i think these characters are much more true to the source material.  
> \- you may have noticed that there is no natalene in this chapter. there actually won’t be any in anymore chapters. i’m sorry, but i just don’t like the ship anymore, and i don’t feel that i can write it accurately.   
> \- yes, i KNOW anna pavlovna lives in petersburg, i KNOW that dolokhov really was very close to his mother and sisters. i’m taking some creative license. take a fuckin sip, babes.  
> \- apparently i really like to write danatole fucking at soirées
> 
> anyway, i know this chapter is in a very different style and i know it’s not.....very good, but i hope you enjoyed it anyway. time to wait another four months to update again!
> 
> my [tumblr](https://andrierretashas.tumblr.com/)


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